


Connor, Hank, and the Wild, Wild West

by necroneol



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, M/M, Other, and god said.....yeehaw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-10-18 13:44:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17582000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necroneol/pseuds/necroneol
Summary: The midday sun beat down hard on the frontier town of Detroit. It was a long standing place, built many decades ago, but while sun bleached and heavy with history, it stood strong and bountiful. Detroit was somewhat isolated, but so naturally regulated that it acted as it’s own little economy. Here, the people lacked nothing. Each and every inhabitant had something to do, some role to fill. Ranchers, bankers, shop owners, saloon keeps, you name it. Everyone had a job to fulfill to keep Detroit running, and Hank Anderson was no exception.(In other words, Hank is the sheriff, Connor is a runaway cowboy trying to get himself a job, and Amanda is a scarily wealthy farm owner with blatant favoritism for Connor's twin brother. Essentially RK900 (Niles) said "this town aint big enough for the two of us" and Connor said "u right”)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a work in progress. Suggestions are greatly appreciated.
> 
> A little preface, I know little to nothing about the old west save what (most likely blatant lies) Hollywood fed me. Also, I took great artistic liberties, and this is just for shits and giggles so its not super accurate but basically the Stern family consists of Amanda, Connor, and Niles; Connor has a gorgeous blonde horse named Chloe; and Kamski is Connor's long lost biological father (though Connor does not know, and I highly doubt I will bring him up but maybe once).
> 
> This may have a little more to it, so keep a look out if you like!

As the town sheriff, it was Hank’s duty to keep his people safe. He regulated internal and external affairs (this included keeping an eye on any passerby or prospective future citizens who came through the town; for Detroit was an impressive place and often attracted people of all sorts, good and bad) and dealt with crime, when it arose. Detroit was a mostly safe, peaceful place, but conflict between families, outsiders, even the occasional raiders existed here just as they did anywhere else in such a time.

He executed his role well, though he was known for being particularly lazy, and sharp-tongued at times. The people of Detroit trusted him to keep them safe, and trusted him the ability to operate solo. Thus, he was left alone. Rather completely, actually. His parents had both passed of old age, his wife left many years ago, and his son, Cole, was killed in the crossfire of a raid a long while back. The only consistent company Hank kept was that of his Saint Bernard, Sumo.

He could commonly be found lounging around one of the three saloons in town. The cool drink provided some relief from the glaring sun, and gave him a good vantage point, as alcohol made people stupid, and stupid people started stupid fights. If ever a skirmish was to break out, it would likely have its origins here, where Hank would be waiting to break it up.

Hank sighed as he lowered his bottle from his lips, and put his finger to the bridge of his nose, to scratch at the flushed skin. Lazily, blue eyes skimmed from one face to the next, searching for any preemptive sign of a brawl. When he found none, he slumped over the counter and uttered a groan. Jimmy Peterson, bar tender, gave him a sympathetic look.

“Heat gettin’ to you bad, Hank?” He asked, taking one of Hank’s empty bottles and sliding it beneath the counter. “It hadn’t been this hot for a while. Makin’ everybody drowsy and irritable.”

“It’s hot as Hell, Jimmy,” Hank muttered. He scrubbed his sunburnt nose into his button up sleeve before raising his head. “It’s the damn roads—like they take in all the sun and burn it back on us. I’m surprised we haven’t had any fires yet.”

“No travelers, either,” Jimmy commented, glancing past Hank to peer outside the saloon swinging doors, “S’pose it’s too hot for anyone to be riding today.”

Hank sat back on his stool and placed his hands in his lap. He wiped the sweat from his palms on the legs of his britches, and slowly swung his leg out, dropping from the seat of his stool. “Sittin’ around is making me antsy,” he announced, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He started towards the double doors. “I’ll see you later, Jimmy. Lemme know if anyone tries to get smart.” He raised a hand and waved it in parting before shouldering the double doors open and pushing out into the blinding sun.

Hank reached over his shoulder to pull his hat from its cord round his neck, placing it firmly over his greyed hair, which was pulled back into a loose, sweaty ponytail, with the strands that were too short to reach the tie hanging in damp strings around his eyes. Putting on his hat was like closeng the top of his head into a sauna, but it would allow him to see through the white hot sunlight, at least. Hank pursed his lips and whistled, waking the massive dog who had been asleep just outside the saloon entrance.“Hey, boy,” Hank greeted, smiling faintly. The dog, Sumo, barked in reply. Hank started off then, towards the bank a little ways down the road. The bank was the second most likely place in Detroit to host a fight, or worse, a stick up. It wouldn’t hurt to go have a look, Hank assumed. Though really, it was a useless effort; if there was anything for him to deal with, he would have heard the commotion beforehand from a mile away. It was just the act of pretending like he had something to do that he really wanted.

He was just at the single door of the bank when he heard, from far away, a faint whistle. Hank, frowning and drawing his brow together, turned his head and squinted down the sand. Through the heatwaves, he saw a blurry speck of a figure. A mounted passerby, it seemed.

Hank grimaced, and turned away from the bank doors. Anybody traveling in this heat was bound to be trouble. Running from authorities, or bringing with him general ill intent. A pat against his thigh brought Sumo to attention, and together, the two ambled along, towards the edge of town, where the figure was becoming more and more pronounced. Everyone else was inside, hiding away from the heat, and if there was anything Hank was grateful to the heat for it was that. Because at least, then, if this newcomer had come along with evil doing on the mind, the townspeople would be out of immediate harms way. Just to be sure, Hank rested his palm against the butt of his pistol, and sidled up against the corner of the porch at the furthest building.

Minutes passed. The mounted traveler seemed to be steadily slowing down, as if he were tired, or encumbered. Perhaps he was only being cautious. Whatever it was, it took a while for him to finally become clearly visible to Hank’s old eyes. He was a fine looking young man, possibly around 25 years in age, wearing a light colored cowboy hat, secured under the chin with a pretty bright blue tie. His coat was obviously meant to be darker in color, but had been turned something closer to beige with collected dust. From the lapel of his coat, a blue brooch glittered. His horse was a beautiful thing, healthy and well-fed, though clearly parched at the moment; blonde, and sleek, and decorated with a fine set of gear. The traveler’s belongings looked light, seemingly all contained in one sack bouncing along the left haunch of his steed.

As he approached, he slowed further still, until he was eventually coming in at barely a trot. He did not stop until he was only a few feet away from Hank, who had already squared his shoulders and set his jaw at an attempt at intimidation. The expensive look of this man made Hank even more nervous than he had been before. The arrival of someone so finely dressed riding out in sweltering heat with apparently very little to his name was exactly how trouble started. Hank could already see it now: a vagabond, having committed the murder of some townsperson or business partner, on the run and looking to start a new life. Coming to Detroit in hopes that no one would know.

Rather quietly, the man dismounted. He took his horse by the reins, and stepped forward.

“Hello, sir,” he greeted, tipping his hat, and then removing it from his head to let it rest upon his chest. His hair was damp with perspiration, and curled into a clean dark brown cut, longer at the top and styled to the side. His eyes were the same deep brown, with an endearing softness to their look. When he spoke, the faintest impressions of dimples pressed into his cheeks. He was the epitome of a heartbreaker.

“Howdy,” Hank replied, nodding his head in return. His hand at his pistol tightened. “I’m the sheriff of this town. Hank Anderson,” Hank paused, narrowing his eyes as he looked the man up and down. From up close, he could see the shine of his spurs, on handsome boots under dark pants. At his waist buckled a black belt, but much to Hank’s surprise, no holster. “Mind tellin’ me your name, son?”

“Connor, sir. Connor Stern,” Connor offered a half-cocked attempt at a smile. If Hank hadn’t been watching him so carefully, he might have missed it, “I’m looking for a place to stay. Chloe,” he nodded towards his horse, “needs some water and rest. Might I trouble you for directions?”

“If you tell me why you’re here first, I reckon I might.”

Connor looked offended. His brow, delicate and fair, pinched in, and the corners of his mouth pressed down. Then, seeming to understand Hank’s apprehension, the young man blinked and nodded. Of course Hank was suspicious of him, anyone would be. He was well aware of his circumstances. Even if it hurt his feelings a little to consider the scrutiny of his character, he was a man of reason.

“I haven’t committed any crime, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Connor offered, voice level and cool, “My mother and I got into a bit of a disagreement back home. She requested I leave the ranch—so I did. Gladly. We’ve never gotten along,” he admitted as he hooked one thumb into the loop of his britches, “I figured now was as good a time as any to move out and settle down somewhere a little more agreeable. I heard of Detroit from an old buddy of mine, and thought I ought to give it a look.” Connor paused now, and slowly replaced his hat on his head. His inclined his head towards the gruff man before him, and looked up at him from under his lashes. A habitual, though subconscious utilization of the persuasive power of puppy dog eyes. “I also heard y’all are in dire need of a chief deputy, sir?”

His words held an unmistakable implication. One that caused Hank to scoff. “Must be a different Detroit. I’ve got all the help I need.” He pointed his thumb towards Sumo, who wagged his tail in reply. “If you’re looking for that sort of position I suggest you try the next town over.”

“Dogs are lovely creatures, yes,” Connor said with another half-smile, “But they are not legally recognized as undersheriffs. Not yet, anyways. Detroit county is fairly large, surely a second in command could come in handy.

Hank laughed this time, a short, barking sound. “You’re persistent, boy, I’ll give you that. But what makes you think I’d just let any ol’ kid be chief deputy the instant he walks in? If I was looking for some help, I could very easily take the assistance of any of my current officers. If I go ‘round employin’ whoever smiles the prettiest outta the bunch, Detroit wouldn’t be standing much longer. Besides, aren’t you a little young?”

“Not at all,” Connor countered, “I’ve got 26 years on my belt. Spent the last four as an officer back home, sir.”

“Yeah?” Hank eyed him, skeptical once again. It was hard to see this man as anything other than a lazy skirt chaser, with far too much time and far too much money on his hands to do much of anything of real worth. His pretty boy face said it all, and though Hank could not see his hands under the cover of his riding gloves, he would bet money they were as soft and tender as a lady’s. “So you’re telling me you’re an officer without a gun?”

Connor’s smile disappeared at this, but his tone stayed steady and light, “Mother always told me a bullet was the quickest way to get what you wanted outta life. I disagree. I gave my revolver to the station when I left. I aim to _rid_ myself of her influence, not to merely carry it with me.”

“Rrright,” Hank clearly did not believe a word that was coming out of Mr. Stern’s pretty mouth, but that was an issue he would have to address later, if Connor even did decide to hang around like he said he would. Without another word on the subject, Hank pivoted where he stood and raised an arm to point towards a wide building a little ways in the distance. “The hotel is past the bank. You can stay there for the night. As for your horse, ask the farmer down the road. He’ll take care of ‘er as long as you’ve got the funds.”

Connor moved towards his mount, placing a hand at her lovely muzzle, “And if I haven’t got the funds?”

Hank raised an eyebrow, and shot the young man an incredulous look. “Well then, I suggest you get moving now if you wanna make it to the next town by sundown. We don’t take Kindly to freeloaders here. Detroit has only stood upright so long for a reason.”

Connor raised a hand, and waved it care freely. “I only joke,” he assured, shaking his head, “I’ve got enough for now. Though, taking the position of chief deputy would certainly secure my monetary comfort.” Again, the implications. Hank suppressed a groan. He was stubborn, Hank had to admit. With charisma on his side, Connor held a powerful weapon.

“It seems like ranch hand might be a better option for you, son,” Hank teased as he turned away, “you look like you could use the labor.”

Hank missed the offended look this time. Connor blinked hard, to keep himself from making too obvious an unpleasant expression, and faced his horse. He smoothed a palm down the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Come now, Chloe. I should get you something to drink.” Taking the beast by her reigns, Connor walked past the older man, who watched him go with a curious gaze. Connor did not look back.


	2. Chapter 2

Connor secured Chloe to a post just outside the hotel, keeping his head down, very deliberately pretending not to notice the Sheriff giving him the stink eye from the window of the store just across the way. He gave her flank a gentle pat and promised he would be back shortly. Still very carefully avoiding the Sheriff’s suspicious gaze, Connor entered the hotel.

At the front desk, an impressive man with wide shoulders greeted him. He had a sweet smile, and kind eyes, so unlike the initially intimidating appearance of his build. Connor, upon approaching the desk, which seemed small in comparison to the man who stood behind it, removed his thick dark riding gloves and shook the stranger’s hand. He offered no smile of his own, but the natural polite curve of his mouth was enough to make a halfway decent first impression.

“Staying for the night, sir?”

Connor nodded and once again removed his hat from his head. “Yessir, please. Just one bed, thank you. I’m not sure how long just yet.”

“That’s alright,” the man replied, turning towards the pad of paper at his side, “Can I have your name, then?”

“Connor Stern.”

“Alright, Mr. Stern,” the burly man smiled again, flashing teeth, and produced for Connor a small key, a tag with the room number 8 inked in neat handwriting attached to it’s handle. As the man handed it over, Connor exchanged with him his payment, and then stuffed the key into the inner pocket of his dark coat. He made to turn away, when the man at the desk spoke up.

“If you need to put your horse up for the night, my wife, Kara, will be happy to take it in,” the man informed, nodding over his shoulder, and looking pointedly out the window beside his desk, “Our barn is just next door. She ought to be there now.”

Connor tipped his hat graciously, and said his thanks, and left the hotel for now. He let Chloe free, and lead her by the reins to the stables just a minute away. The doors were closed, but Connor, who was never known to be a shy sort, readily let himself in. He found inside rows of stables, most of which were occupied, and a little girl, sitting at the far end of the barn, speaking quietly to the woman beside her. At Connor’s entrance, she started to her feet and ducked behind the older woman’s legs, grabbing hold tightly. The woman raised her head and smiled.

Connor left Chloe where she was and approached the pair. “Are you Kara, m’am?”

The woman wiped her palms off on the the skirt of her apron and nodded quickle. She stuck out a hand, which Connor shook. “Yes, sir. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, this is my daughter Alice.” Kara gestured vaguely towards the nervous child behind her, and laughed softly. It was a very pleasant, warm sound. “I suppose Luther told you I could put your horse up for you?”

“Yes, ma’m,” Connor dipped his head, glancing at the little girl as he did so. She eyed Connor anxiously, tugging on her mother’s skirt all the while. He tried not to take it personally. “I have the money, though I do not know how long I should need to stay…”

Kara waved a hand. “Don’t worry about the money too much now. We’ll work something out later.”

Connor frowned. “Are you sure? I really don’t mind—“

“Nonsense. Go on, I’ll take her from here.” Kara started towards the lovely mare with Alice close behind, taking her gently by the harness and leading her towards an empty stall. Connor watched her quietly for a moment, and only thanked her as she undid the straps holding his pack to Chloe’s side and handed him his things, before excusing himself and departing. He made for the hotel again, nodded hello to Luther on his way in, and walked down the hall in search of Room 8. He twisted his key in the lock and pushed it open with a small kick of his boot.

Sparkling dust particles swirled in the sunlight streaming through the small window. Connor swatted them away, and set his bag down at the foot of the small bed in one corner of the room. It hosted a patch quilt, two chicken feather pillows, and one thin under sheet. The whole room was composed of varying degrees of sunbleached wood, but otherwise had a very homely feel. The dresser at the end of the bed was quiant, but smelled nice and clean, like lavender and mothballs. Upon the nightstand rested a candle and a little pocket bible, well worn and clearly loved. Though stuffy and lonely, Connor felt comfortable in the safety of a room again.

Connor sighed softly and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. He reached down to grab the handles of his bag and pulled it into his lap. He pulled from it a folded stack of clothes—two sets of day clothes and two sets of night wear—a couple bound books, a handful of apples, bread, and crackers, and an empty canteen. Connor stood to place his clothing in the drawers of the dresser, and his provisions on top of it. He tucked his empty bag beside the nightstand, where he also let the books sit for the time being. Connor shucked off his coat and laid it over the back of the headboard. He pulled off his boots, setting them neatly beside one another at the floor at the end of the bed. He began to undo the topmost button of his shirt when, happening to turn his head and take an accidental glance out the window, he found the figure of the Sheriff, still in the wide window of the store across the sand road. He was watching him, though it seemed to have become an absent minded thing, as if Hank wasn’t actually seeing, just lost in thought. He did not startle when Connor turned his way, and thus Connor concluded that maybe he _wasn't_ watching him after all. He closed the curtains anyways, and sat down on the edge of the bed again with a troubled sigh.

Against his own volition, Connor was barraged all at once by both the physical tiredness of traveling an entire day on horseback in uncomfortable heat, and the emotional exhaustion of the very circumstances which had led him to the road. His mother’s cold, uncaring words echoed in his head. _You disappoint me, Connor. You always have._ Her eyes, dark and unkind, bore into his own. _You have no place here. Leave, before you make a mockery of our family name any further._ Her mouth, pressed into a thin, displeased grimace. _And don’t come back._

And his bother, too. Niles. The same cool, calculating personality as their mother, but the same handsome, charming face as Connor’s. Only his was cold, and never held even a hint of a smile. That, in a way, was worse. For in Niles, Connor saw himself, or rather, who he could (or should, in his mother’s opinion) be. Cruel, egotistical, selfish. Finding importance only in the monetary value things held. It was this distant and impersonal attitude that made the Stern family so rich, and this same attitude that made them also so lonely.

Connor…did not like to be lonely. He did not like to regard humans as numbers and dollar signs. He did not like a lack of free will. For a time, he had done his best to please his family, responded eagerly to their every command. He liked praise, and he liked doing as he was told, because this often lead to the very praise he constantly desired. But when he had realized what his mother was doing—cheating people from their money, giving them false hope that their investments would pay off well, driving them to the streets with nothing but broken, misplaced trust to tell them _why,_ even, though this was just a suspicion on Connor’s part, committing murder to silence any who stood too strongly in her way—he felt a self-loathing stronger than he had ever felt before. He didn’t know why he snapped in the end. Maybe it was a collection of things, built up over the twenty something years of his life, that, after time, slowly bore down on the man until it was simply too much to carry. Maybe it was something else entirely. But regardless of the cause, Connor had been pushed too far one way or another, and he had finally decided it was his time to push back.

Connor was not one to often raise his voice, as was anyone in the Stern bloodline. But on the day he left his hometown, he had yelled. Possibly, for the first time in his life, even. Yelled accusations so strong they felt even too violent and dark to say aloud, for it was scary to think they were true. His fists had remained balled at his sides, his face flushed a dark red. He had never once laid his hands upon her, though he had wanted to, at a time. Connor had simply turned away, listened numbly to her parting words with damp eyes, and showed himself out of the only home he had ever known. His brother, who had been standing in the kitchen doorway at that time, made not a single comment, only pushed him shoulder to shoulder as he left. Connor could feel their eyes bearing down upon his person. Blue and bright, and dark and deep.

He wondered what the people of his hometown thought. What was Amanda to tell them? Connor was a well-known citizen, respected even. His disappearance was surely noticeable. He did not put it past her to lie, and say Connor had simply gone away to see family in another town, or worse, to claim he had committed some physical harm upon her in a sudden fit of violence and left in rage, but he also did not find it unlikely that she simply refused to say anything of the matter at all. Perhaps she would leave the people to wonder and speculate…

The young man sighed, and leaned back. He lowered himself onto his bed, and pillowed his arm beneath the back of his head. With the curtains to dim the room, turning it all to a gentle, warm glow, Connor tried his best to convince himself to relax. He closed his eyes, and willed his frown to lessen, and his pinched brow to smooth. He sighed again, softer this time, and let it out long through his nose. Connor had always been a very smart man, analytical at times, and equipped with self-discipline strong enough to bring a certain, though not limitless, amount of control to his mind. He exerted such willpower now, commanding his head to clear away any troublesome thoughts, and instead fill with a solemn emptiness. Relishing in this void, Connor slowly drifted to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

It was to the twinkling stars and the quiet chatter of passerby that Connor Stern awoke. He turned his head with a groggy groan, and unfolded his stiff arm from beneath his neck to draw back the curtains of the window. Outside, the sky was a light blue, midnight towards the edges, speckled here and there with specks of light. It was freshly night time, and the cooling relief of the moon brought the people of Detroit from hiding. Many traveled in familial units down the sand paths, speaking cheerfully to one another on their way to their favorite dining establishment. Others walked in pairs or even alone, more likely in search of saloons to wet their throats. The sheriff, Hank, was no where to be seen at the moment, and neither were any of the other three faces he had seen in his short time here.

Connor rubbed his hand down his face and sat up slowly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pushed his feet into his boots, and buttoned up his shirt. Connor unfolded his vest from the drawers, pulled it over his shoulders, and drew his overcoat on along with it. At the lapel glittered a beautiful bright blue brooch, in the plain shape of a triangle. A bit of a family heirloom, if you will. One that he wore out of habit, and guilt—a constant reminder of the cruelty he had been a part of. He started out of his room, locking his door behind him, and down the hall. At the desk, Kara now stood, along with Alice, and Luther, too. The child was nursing an apple, and Kara had a notepad under her arm. He asked them were the washroom was, and after refreshing for the night, exited the hotel.

The breeze turned the comfortable cool into a slightly less comfortable cool. Connor drew his coat close, and stopped just at the last step of the hotel porch. Every building was lit up with candle light and roaring fireplaces, filling the roads with enough warm illumination that any real streetlights were unnecessary. Connor could see why Detroit was known for its liveliness and prosperity now. Everyone looked, at the very least, healthy enough not to cause concern, and even if their clothes weren’t all of rich luxurious material, they all _had_ clothes and that was more than some towns could say of their inhabitants. The town oozed comfort, and Connor liked that. Detroit was growing on him quickly.

He turned towards the middle of the streets, searching the signs of buildings in attempt to find some place to eat for the night. With no particular establishment in mind, he made his way down the roads, his arms loose at his sides. He stopped when he stood in front of the first diner he came across, and went inside without a second thought.

A black man with a handsome smile and a stubbled head greeted him. “Hey, there. Dinin’ alone, sir?”

“Ah—yes, thank you.”

The man showed him to his table, a small two person arrangement towards the back of the building, pointed him to a chalkboard menu towards the front of the restaurant, and asked him what he wanted to drink. “Just water,” Connor replied as he pulled his chair beneath him and scooted into the table. His server nodded and left. It took a minute for him to return, with a glass of water in his hand. He placed it gently before the young man, then paused.

“You’re the newcomer…ain’t ya?” He asked curiously, placing a hand on the edge of the table, towards the empty second seat.

“Yes, I am,” Connor squinted up at the man, rolling his shoulder uncomfortably. This man did not seem to regard him with as much direct suspicion as Mr. Anderson did, but there was certainly a glint of curiosity in his dark brown eyes. For a town known for it’s charity streak, the people of Detroit were a wary kind.

“Name’s Josh. It’s nice to meet you.” The man, Josh, nodded his head, and smiled, alleviating some of the unspoken tension from their interaction. “Connor, I assume?”

Connor blinked rapidly. “Yes, but how did you…?”

“Hank was talkin’ ‘bout you at the saloon a little ways down. Told us all to remember not to trust any ‘pretty boy smile,’” Josh laughed, and shook his head, “His words. I think he was just trying to remind himself. Look,” the man stepped back, and tucked his hands into his pants pockets, “Hank is a good man, alright? Don’t let his first-impression be the only thing you hold onto. He cares a lot about us here, but he’s lost a lot, too. He doesn’t like outsiders comin’ in, ‘specially not in circumstances like yours. Our good name brings bad people—he just wants to make sure we’re all safe.”

“Thank you, I’ll…keep that in mind, sir,” Connor looked down at his hands, folded neatly on the table top, “Where might I find the Sheriff tonight, if I may ask?”

“Try any of the saloons,” Josh offered, shrugging a shoulder, “He’s usually there at any time of the day, really. Hey, you know what you want to eat?”

Connor, a little caught off guard by the sudden reminder that he was, in fact, here to consume a meal, glanced at the chalkboard and ordered the first thing that he saw. Josh disappeared again. Connor, now left alone, sighed and turned his head to gaze out the window beside him.

Moments later, a steaming plate of breaded fish and potatoes was placed before him, along with a bill he was to pay at the counter when he was finished. Connor ate slowly as he observed the people around him. Everyone here seemed so different from one another, so unique and interesting, and yet somehow…all the same. Maybe it was just the general air of tranquility that hung over Detroit and its people, or maybe it was the underlying sense of collective and relatable hardship they all had suffered that united them as a community. Detroit pushed strangers away, out of fear of raids and trickery, but was known just as well to provide a safe haven to many mistreated vagabonds that came its way. Connor was no different from any other runaway seeking a new start.

Once he had cleared his plate and emptied his glass twice, Connor paid his bill and took his leave. Without hesitation, he started towards the first bar in sight. As he entered the swinging doors, shone through with light, the sound of energized, loud men and women filled his ears. Connor shouldered the doors open, and stepped inside.

He scanned the crowd, walking slowly between the bars and the round tables and the gatherings of people all heavy with drink, but found no trace of the Sheriff. So, he moved on, down the road to the next saloon, and then the next, and then the next, and on until finally—at the fifth and final saloon of Detroit (as far as Connor knew)—he spotted the man he was looking for. Sheriff Hank Anderson, sitting alone and scowling at the bar.

Connor approached the man carefully, regarding him with an inquisitive gaze. As he neared him, the man raised his head, and stared dumbfounded at his face. “You,” he said, sliding his bottle from his hand, to place it instead open upon the wood counter.

“Me,” Connor replied, blinking down at the older man. Since the time they had last met, he had put on a large, brown overcoat, with a dark blue neckerchief tied in a sloppy knot at his neck. His hat sat between his shoulder blades from its cord under his chin. His badge twinkled at his breast. His eyes were red and damp and hot with alcohol.

“Do you need something?” Hank muttered, giving Connor a once-over.

“Not particularly. I just thought I might wish to speak with you.”

The man merely grunted in reply. But Connor, ever determined, ignored the less-of-a-hint-and-more-of-a-statement that Hank was not particularly interested in his conversation, and sat himself beside the Sheriff. Hank turned his cheek to the younger gentleman, and brought the rim of his brown-glassed bottle to his lips. The bartender, Jimmy (though Connor did not know his name at the time), inquired as to what drink he would like. Connor replied that he had no wish to drink, and thanked him anyways.

Suddenly, Hank spoke up.

“You said your last name is Stern. As in, _the_ Stern family? The Stern family that’s taken over half of the damn western economy?” He sounded accusatory, though what exactly Hank was accusing Connor of was a mystery. For Hank, as an outsider of the Stern bloodline, should know little to nothing about the underhanded business practice of Connor’s name. Speculation was a common thing, something Connor expected at this point, but any solid proof had never once come to light.

“The same, sir,” Connor answered truthfully, though regrettably, “Though as I stated before, I have come to Detroit county specifically to get _away_ from my family legacy, so I would appreciate if—“

“If what? If I let you bat your pretty lashes and turned a blind eye to the absolute treachery your family has run on for years?” Hank set his bottle down perhaps a little too roughly, “And I s’pose I should just hand you that deputy position while I’m at it. You’re used to getting your way, ain’t ya?”

Connor said nothing. He blinked slowly at the countertop, and reached into the pocket of his coat. He produced a small coin, polished and glinting. He rubbed it between his fingers, flipped it around. A nervous habit.

Hank was silent for a long time, too. The tension was tangible. Jimmy began to notice, as was apparent by the wary looks he shot their way. He seemed to be considering breaking up whatever was happening between them. Connor, afraid of more confrontation from another side he had not accounted for, quickly opened his mouth.

“I understand your reluctance to trust me, sir. My circumstances are not pretty, and my lineage is of questionable moral values. However, if I could, at the very least, find refuge here, and perhaps even begin anew, I would be very pleased….sir,” Connor’s gaze fixed on his coin, he sighed, “I only wish to right the wrongs I did not consciously commit, and to do some good unto the world. I am no saint, but I am a hard worker, and I have a quick mind. If I could apply myself to some helpful task, I reckon I could do a world of good.”

Hank, having forgotten his drink in the midst of Connor’s speech, now took the bottle up again and downed its remnants in one hearty gulp. He set his glass down gently this time, and leaned back on his stool precariously. He did not look at Connor even a little, but rather, kept his eyes trained on the coin he twirled between his fingers.

“Look, kid, I can’t stop you from applying for a job like anyone else. Just remember that you’re an outsider here; not everyone is gonna let you come waltzin’ in right away. You’re gonna have to earn your place just like everyone else did, you hear?”

Connor caught his coin between his pointer and his middle, and spun on his stool to stare at the Sheriff. The young man nodded fervently. Hank’s light tone and the lessening of the crease of his brow spoke of hope, and promises. Conner’s heartbeat stuttered happily. “I understand, sir. Thank you.” He stood, spurs jingling softly at the abrupt movement, “Then, I leave you as you were. I will be at the station at sunrise.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Hank muttered, waving a hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having trouble to find time to work on this stuff between school and personal life, so for anyone who cares, I appreciate your patience :) I'm still not sure how long this will go but I don't want to leave it cut off, so I'll try to crank out a couple more chapters soon!

Just as Connor had promised, bright and early, there he was, standing at the station doors, his coin twinkling between his nimble fingers. Hank, who had fallen asleep at his desk inside, with Sumo soundly snoozing upon his boots, did not notice the curious face peering through the window. Finding the doors unlocked for any who may need to find refuge in the safety of the law, Connor entered the building, and wandered towards Hank’s office, picking up and thumbing over things along the way. A worn novel, a pristine copy of the Holy Bible, an empty glass that smelled strongly of liquor, a frayed remnant of rope tied into a bow tie knot (a toy for Sumo, Connor inferred), and on. The young man finally reached Hank’s door, and rapped his knuckles on the dark wood, right under the brass plaque that read “Sheriff H. Anderson.” Not surprisingly, there was no response.

“Sheriff Anderson?” Connor called, knocking again, “Good morning, sir, it’s sunrise. I’ve come to apply for a job, as I said I would. Are you awake, sir?”

No reply still. Perhaps Hank wasn’t there, after all. Asking around before going back to his room last night, Connor had gathered that the only two places Hank liked to occupy were the bar and his office, and as the bar was not open, he thought it safe to assume this was where he had gone after their meeting last night. Connor frowned thoughtfully, and stuffed his coin into his coat pocket, only to reach up and fiddle with the brooch on his breast.

“Sir?” He called once more, leaning in to press his cheek to the wood. “I—“  
  
“God damn it all, son! When I said be here by sunrise I didn’t actually mean—“

In the sudden act of the office door being yanked open, Connor had stumbled forward as his leverage was pulled from beneath him, and his face fell pillowed into Hank’s chest. The young man cleared his throat and stepped back, placing a hand on Hank’s left breast to push himself upright. When he raised his head, he was greeted by the disgruntled face of a gruff, bleary-eyed Hank, flushed red over the nose. He scratched at his beard and huffed. Whether he was red in the face because of the lingering effects of alcohol, or because Connor had just unintentionally face-planted into his person, completely without will, the young Mr. Stern could not tell. But then, he figured, it likely did not matter one bit either way. At least the accidental contact had cut Hank’s rant short.

“Good morning, sir,” Connor mumbled again, tipping his hat at the man before him. “I apologize for waking you so rudely. I thought you would appreciate my punctuality. I did not anticipate that you would still be sleeping at this hour.” This was partially a fib, as Connor was actually very much well aware of the fact that the only people who ever woke up as early as him on a daily basis were farmers and bank tellers. He liked to pretend that everyone operated on his early bird schedule, though. It was easier and more efficient that way. For him, anyways. That was a rich boy for you.

The young man inclined his head, and finally his hand fell from his brooch, and from Hank’s chest. “Perhaps…a little breakfast could raise your spirits?” He raised an eyebrow slightly, putting on his best puppy dog face (though it was unintentional, he swore).

“Nobody’d be open at the crack of dawn.” Hank grumbled, scratching drowsily at his chest. His hair, sometime between the time Connor had last seen him and now, had fallen partially out of its tie, and was now pulled mostly into disarray, in a crooked remnant of a ponytail. His bangs in the front, the ones that were too short to fit into a ponytail anyways, hung in scraggly silver clumps before his eyes—pale blue, and sunbleached, like everything else in this town. The older man yawned and scrubbed a palm down his face, down the beard that was in much need of a trim.

“Miss Kara and her husband are awake, and have offered to serve us breakfast.”

Hank snorted, and started to turn away, “So you’ve already got them in your pretty faced trap, huh?” He went to his desk, and bent down to grab his boots. They were wedged under Sumo, whom he regretfully had to wake to retrieve his shoes. The beast grumbled and raised his head, then shook it, collar rattling, as the Sheriff stomped his bare heels into his dusty, well loved boots. Sumo lumbered to his feet and wandered slowly out of the office with Hank just as slow behind him. Connor waited patiently by the bench next to the entrance, arms held stiffly and somewhat awkwardly at his side, as they tended to be when he was not actively busy with some task, toe of his pointed, spurred riding boots tapping in an uneven rhythm on the dusty floorboards. Hank stood before him silently, and for a moment, neither man said anything, simply eyed the other. Hank’s eyes were not cold, as blue eyes could be, but sad and impatient and frustrated—contrary to Connor’s gaze, which, even though they were a warm, deep brown in color, held the fast and sudden sorrow of fresh pain, temporary patience brought about only by a lingering hope that it was all just a bad dream, a hastily formed self-defense of boldness and valor that withered visibly with each passing minute. It was not hard to see he was hurting, for he had not yet learned the method of concealment that came with experience and old age—had not yet learned that hurting was all living had to offer.

Hank, feeling some sense of pity twinge in his gut, turned his heel suddenly and hurried out the door. He let Connor close it behind him, and without a word started down the dust path with Sumo and young Mr. Stern following alongside. They walked quietly at first, down the dirt road, trodden smooth by carriages and hooves and boots. Hank combed his hair down with sweaty palms and tied it up again, allowing cooling air to breeze over his damp neck. For a good while, the only noise was Sumo’s panting, until Hank felt uncomfortable, and obliged to break the silence.  
“I sure would like a cup of coffee right now. Miss Kara makes it nice.”

“Does she?” Connor glanced at the man a little ways ahead and beside him, raising an eyebrow slightly out of curiosity, “Well. I’m eager to try it, then.”

They fell into silence once more. Hank stuffed his hands in his pockets, worked at the inside of his cheek with the sides of his teeth. Quiet always made him mad. Not angry mad, but nervous mad. Restless and wary. The only time it felt nice was when he imposed it, and right now was certainly not one of those times. But racking his brain pulled up nothing but small talk junk he didn’t care for one bit and nosy questions far too serious to discuss with a stranger, even after a cup of coffee, neither of which seemed like a good idea. So he hurried his pace, lengthened his stride, tried to look grand and purposeful, as if he had started walking faster for some good reason. Connor followed obediently behind, like a pretty pampered poodle at his heels.

When they finally reached the little motel off the farm, Hank thought he was going to burst. He rounded the stairs and rushed inside, scanning the room without turning his head—a sheriff thing. “Hello? Miss Kara?”

The woman in question poked her head round the corner, and smiled brightly. “Well, good mornin’, Sheriff. Can’t believe Mister Stern really got you up this early. Coffee?” And she ducked away before he could answer, and returned within a minute with two chipped mugs in her hands. She handed the men their own and nodded them towards the hall she had originally appeared from. “Come an’ sit in the kitchen. I’ve got some breakfast all made up.”

“I thank you, m’am,” Hank muttered, glancing at Connor, who had his usual strange half-smile, half-nothing-at-all expression on. His face seemed to look funny like that all the time. It made Hank’s head hurt. He said nothing to the man beside him, and padded into the kitchen, boots thumping heavily on the hardwood flooring. Connor’s spurs jingled daintily with every light step he took.

The kitchen was a nice one, old but furnished and well taken care of. The walls were a cosy yellow earth tone, like mustard seed, the cabinets dark wood and dry. The rounded table sat in the middle topped with a sun-yellowed daisy print cloth, with four chairs to its sides, each cushioned with a little white wool stuffed pillow. Handmade, if Hank had to guess. Wool pillows weren’t popular in stores here. On the stove, a large pot of black, strong coffee brewed, next to a pot of grits and butter, and a skillet with eggs and bacon all crowded next to each other. The kitchen smelled like food and comfort and hospitality. Kara beckoned the men sit, and so they did, thanking her politely. She turned off the fire stove.

Kara fixed up their plates and set them on the table top with a big smile, silverware and napkins included. Hank thanked her yet again, nodded into his coffee, took a long scalding gulp, and picked up his fork. “Where’s Luther and the little one?” He asked as he brought his silverware to his lips.

Kara pulled up a seat beside Connor and set her arms on the table. “Luther’s gone out to work, Alice is still asleep. She’s been acting weird lately, staying up real late worrying herself over something. Says she feels somethin’ heavy in the air.” Kara’s smile faltered for a moment, and Connor caught her eye. She averted her gaze quickly, embarrassed for her moment of weakness. “I’m sure it’s nothing. You know she’s always been kinda silly.”

“Something heavy?” Connor probed, “Like…a storm?”

“I thought that was what she meant, too, but she said I don’t get it.” Kara laughed, raised her shoulders in a shrug, “Says I’m an adult so I don’t get it.”

Hank hummed thoughtfully, and shoveled another forkful of yolk covered bacon and grits into his mouth. He scrubbed the back of his hand over his face and beard without even attempting to reach for his napkin. Kara seemed unbothered, but Connor’s nose wrinkled a little. He set his own fork down gently, after clearing away his fried egg on its own, took a sip of coffee, and patted his mouth clean on the edge of his folded cloth napkin. Hank licked his lips, and Connor watched him in mild disgust and strange interest. “Strange,” the Sheriff added, “But then, kids always do have that weird sense in ‘em. Let’s just hope she ain’t right.”

Some part of Connor’s brain decided to remember some piece of information he had gathered, and he offered it readily, without timidity, “On my way here I heard word of a lot of raids happening around the frontier. Thieves mad at big banks and big farms. Jealous, more like.” He paused, and then, worried the tidbit of information had not clicked for his companions and too quick moving to wait to even see if it had or not, added, “Detroit is pretty well-off, you know. Maybe Alice is onto something. Could be someone’s planning to come over here and start trouble for no good reason.”

Hank frowned, but even as reluctant as he was to let Connor influence him, he had to admit he had a good theory going. Bandits came through all the time, but organized raids and shoot downs were a whole other story. If they came through, a lot of good people could be killed for some angry bandits’ misguided frustrations. The Sheruff brought his mug to his lips, sipped the cooled coffee, scowled at his own warbled reflection in the cup. “Let’s just hope she ain’t right,” he repeated solemnly.


End file.
